Memnon

by Oden, Scott

  “Zeus Savior and Helios!” Memnon exhaled. “There’s nothing at sea to rival that! It’s as though you’re flying on the wings of a god!” He stroked the animal’s damp neck. Ahead, a stream, its rocky banks edged with willows, fed into Lake Loudias. Memnon led them upstream about a hundred yards, where all three men dismounted and walked their horses. Once they had cooled, man and beast drank their fill. While the mares nibbled on soft grass, the men sat in the late afternoon shade of a willow tree. Flies buzzed; plovers whirled overhead, hunting insects.

  Pharnabazus dozed on a bier of grass and willow leaves; opposite him, his back to the willow-bole, Memnon sat with his legs out-thrust, one arm pillowing his head. Artabazus rested on a half-buried boulder, massaging his scarred thigh. He glanced sidelong at the Rhodian, whose face bore the gravest of frowns. Twice Memnon looked to be on the verge of speaking, only to lapse back into himself.

  “There are times,” Artabazus said, “when silence speaks more eloquently than the most silver-tongued orator. Your tortured silence tells me this is no mere visit. A task has fallen to you that does not sit well with your conscience. Mentor has set this errand upon you, has he not? Be at ease, then, Memnon. Put aside your concerns and discharge your burden so that you may fully enjoy your homecoming.”

  Memnon smiled. “You could ever read me as though I were an open scroll.” But his smile faded as quickly as it appeared. He hunched forward, elbows on knees, his tone becoming conspiratorial. “Suppose someone could broker a reconciliation between you and the Great King—a full pardon of all your supposed crimes and the chance to be welcomed back to court with a glad heart—what would such a thing be worth to you?”

  “It would have as much worth as a palace made of smoke, Memnon. Many of my brother satraps tried to broker just such a compromise in years past. My royal cousin is implacable. Only one resolution will suit him—my head delivered to Susa on a silver platter.”

  “Say he could be made to relent …”

  “Memnon, I—”

  “Just consider it, Artabazus! What price?”

  The old satrap sighed. Pharnabazus, now awake and listening, watched his father with great interest, his brows meeting to form a ‘V’ over glittering dark eyes. Finally, Artabazus said, “Could it truly be done, it would be worth a great deal. As much as I admire the Greeks, they are not my people. I am a curiosity to them, a well-placed outsider, but an outsider, nonetheless. Yes, there is very little I would not pay for such a reconciliation to take place—as much for me as for my children, who should know their Persian heritage as well as their Greek.”

  Memnon nodded. “Would it be worth Barsine’s hand?”

  The old Persian’s eyes narrowed. Pharnabazus sat upright, his face a mirror of his father’s. “I will say no more,” Artabazus said, “until I have heard the whole story. Why does Mentor want to know what price I would pay? Has he a scheme?”

  Memnon sagged back against the willow-bole. “Mentor has changed, Artabazus. You would no longer know him, were you to pass him in the agora. He’s lost weight and gray streaks his hair like a man twice his years. I noticed it more each time I’d return from the sea. This last time—I’d been away scouting Persian movements from the Gulf of Issus—it was more pronounced …”

  “What news?”

  Memnon marked well his brother’s long face, his sullen eyes. “You look as though you know it already,” he said.

  “Perhaps. Confirm what I know, then, brother.” A pitcher of wine stood at Mentor’s elbow; his stained tunic and beard betokened a night of hard drinking.

  Memnon looked out the window. A warm breeze ruffled his sweat-heavy hair. Sidon’s fortress overlooked the mole-protected North Harbor; though war loomed, the Phoenician merchants carried on with their business as usual. Lean ships, their hulls daubed red, hove close to the quays, offloading gold dust and ivory from Africa, tin and amber from Hyperborea, ironwork from Sinope, and wine from the Aegean. In exchange, they filled their holds with dyed textiles, cedar from the Lebanon Mountains, and jars of dried fruit: raisins from Berytus, prunes from Damascus, and dates from Jericho. Memnon could hear merchants’ voices buzzing up from dockside, mingling with the cries of gulls and the laughter of women and children.

  “Dammit, what news?”

  Memnon scowled as he turned back to face his brother. “Ochus is assembling an enormous force at Sardis. He’s summoned his satraps to him—Belesys of Syria, Mazaeus of Cilicia, Spithridates of Lydia—and he’s secured pledges of troops from Thebes, Argos, and Ionia. I think he plans on reducing Phoenicia to rubble, then marching to the very gates of Memphis. We should warn Pharaoh.”

  Mentor gave a derisive bark. “Warn him? He wouldn’t listen! The pretentious ass believes he’s the son of a god, thus infallible.” The elder Rhodian hefted his wine pitcher and drained it.

  Memnon frowned at the dangerous gleam in his brother’s eyes. “What do we do, then?”

  “Another precarious situation,” Mentor muttered. “Another hopeless cause.”

  “Perhaps we are always fated to play the underdog. Perhaps …”

  The pitcher shattered against the far wall, peppering Memnon with wine lees and fragments of pottery, as the elder Rhodian snarled, “I’m done with it! That Sidonian whoreson thinks he can betray me? By Hades and the cursed Styx! I’ll show him what true betrayal is!”

  “… Though it took some time, I finally got a full accounting from him. Mentor had intercepted an agent of King Tennes of Sidon bound for Sardis with an offer to betray the Phoenicians in exchange for clemency,” Memnon said, his voice full of contempt. “But, instead of arresting both men and packing them off to Pharaoh for execution, Mentor sent Ochus a counteroffer: not only would he give His Majesty Sidon and the Phoenician littoral, but he would hand over the keys to Egypt, as well. The Great King’s answer was brief. ‘Do so,’ he said, ‘and your heart’s desire will be my reward.’ That’s his scheme, Artabazus, and that’s why he sent me here instead of keeping me at his side! I tried to dissuade him from betraying Pharaoh—let Sidon rot for the perfidy of its king, but not Egypt! He would have none of it, though.” Memnon stared at the ground, shaking his head. “It shames me that my own brother no longer feels obliged to honor his word to an ally.”

  “Ah, my dear boy,” Artabazus said, “life is not often as simple as you would have it to be. Hard, even distasteful, decisions are part and parcel of our existence. And we must make them, all honor aside, for the good of our families. Mentor’s intent is not to shame any of us, but to restore us to our former glory.”

  “Where does Barsine fit into all of this?” Pharnabazus asked.

  Artabazus slid off his rock and straightened his tunic. “Is it not obvious? If Mentor succeeds, the Great King will do more than grant his wish. Ochus will give him land to rule, either in Ionia or the Troad—both regions where Pharnacid blood carries great weight. A union with the daughter of a Pharnacid will transfer much of that weight onto him.” He motioned for his son to rise. “Fetch our horses. It is growing late.”

  Memnon stood while Pharnabazus did as his father asked. The Rhodian brushed dust from his tunic with savage swipes of his hands. “And if he fails?” he snarled. “What if this lunatic plan of his gets him skinned alive and boiled in oil? What then?”

  Artabazus shrugged. “There can be no gains without risks. Mentor understands this, just as I understand that he will do this thing regardless of whether or not I tender my blessing. Do I wish he would reconsider his actions? Of course. But you know as well as I that once Mentor sets his mind upon something he becomes as inflexible as granite. All I can do is reinforce his morale by entering into a compact with him—if he succeeds he will have Barsine as his wife, with my joyous blessing; if he fails, I will mourn him as one of my own sons. His stubbornness leaves me little choice in the matter.”

  Memnon exhaled a drawn-out sigh full of frustration and impotent rage. “I am glad this burden is mine no longer. I pass it to you, Artabazus, without
regret,” Memnon said, clapping the old satrap on the shoulder. “In ten days Khafre will take ship back to Miletus, thence to Sidon. Mentor is expecting your answer, be it good or ill. For my part, I stand by whatever you decide.” The Rhodian made to turn away, but stopped. “I’ve not known a season of peace in four years. With winter coming on, I would like nothing better than to spend my days hunting and my nights by the fire.”

  Artabazus smiled. “Both can be easily arranged. Come, let us ride like the wind. If we get in too long after dusk your sister is liable to set the dogs on us.”

  Memnon laughed as Pharnabazus led their horses up. “My dear sister,” he said, offering the old satrap a leg up into the saddle. “The Macedonian winters haven’t chilled her temper, I gather?”

  Artabazus shivered in mock horror. “An enraged Deidamia would melt the snows of Hyperborea.”

  Memnon vaulted astride Euphrosyne and gathered up the reins, touching his heels to the mare’s flanks. “Zeus Savior! We’d best hurry!”

  DEIDAMIA’S ANGER, IF IT EVER MANIFESTED ITSELF, SOON DISSIPATED IN A flurry of activity. She used the hours afforded by their romp in the countryside to oversee preparations for a feast honoring Memnon’s return. Under her meticulous eye, slaves transformed the villa’s courtyard into an open-air banquet hall, replete with garlanded columns and braziers smoldering with a delicate blend of aromatic woods and incense. Iron cressets cast hazy light over six supper couches, arranged in a semicircle around the sparkling fountain. Three low tables, carved of pearwood and inlaid with ivory, held communal dishes of food: loaves of bread, shallow bowls of olive oil for dipping, wheels of cheese and mounds of boiled eggs, pots of lentil stew flavored with onions and garlic, and chunks of tuna cooked in an herb sauce.

  Memnon, freshly bathed and clad in a scarlet tunic, sat to the right of Artabazus and Deidamia; Pharnabazus sat to their left. Beside Memnon, Khafre shared his couch with Cophen, who listened, enthralled, to every word the Egyptian said. Gryllus and his wife, Ianthe, occupied the last couch on the right, an honor Artabazus afforded them in recognition of their long service to the household. With them sat the satrap’s two youngest children: seven-year-old Hydarnes and little Arsames, only five, whose angelic face showed utter concentration as he struggled to untie a knotted cord Gryllus had given him.

  On the couch next to Pharnabazus, Barsine sat with nine-year-old twins Artacama and Ariobarzanes. Time and again as the night wore on, Memnon found his attention drawn to the nineteen-year-old daughter of Artabazus, his own brother’s prospective wife, who had matured into a dark-haired beauty with eyes the color of the night sky. Beneath her quick smile and quicker wit, Memnon sensed Barsine retained the same gravity she had displayed as a child, bolstered by the words of poets and philosophers she had devoured in her studies. “Ignorance has no place under my roof,” Artabazus was fond of saying; son or daughter, all his children received instruction. What would Mentor value more, he wondered, the educated woman or the dynasty she represented?

  Finally, Memnon stirred and, almost frowning, reached for his goblet. Though the vintage was an expensive Thasian, apple-scented and sublime, he drained it as if it were some obol-per-liter table wine.

  “Brooding again?” Deidamia asked. Artabazus lay on his stomach, dozing as she massaged the kinks from his shoulders, oblivious to the children’s laughter. They clapped and yipped as Khafre regaled them with tale after tale of his native Egypt, some familiar from Herodotus, others culled from his years as a temple scribe. Even Pharnabazus and Barsine joined in.

  “I have become adept at brooding,” Memnon said. He poured himself another glass. “Has there been any word of Patron? I would like to see that old scoundrel again.”

  “He passed through Pella around midsummer,” Deidamia said, “bound for Sicily to take part in Timoleon’s war against Carthage.”

  “Sicily? Zeus! If he were that desperate for gold and glory, he should have followed us to Egypt. He would have found both in excess.” Memnon sipped wine. “What about Philip? Where does he campaign so late in the season?”

  “Illyria,” Artabazus murmured, his eyes still closed.

  Deidamia smiled. “Another midsummer departure, this one to quell an uprising along the Illyrian frontier with Epirus. Originally, the King had meant to make for Thrace, to reinforce his general, Parmenion. I’ve heard you men debate Philip’s qualities until you’re as red-faced as Socrates in the agora, but never have you mentioned his flexibility.”

  “That’s because the poets praise a man for his ferocity or his honor, never for his logistical prowess,” Memnon said. He stared into the depths of his wine, hoping to see prophecies and portents, insights into the future; he was disappointed to discover nothing but his own reflection. He sighed and rubbed his eyes. “I’m tired. I think I’ll say goodnight before good Dionysus captures me in a Thasian snare.”

  “I’ve had the guesthouse prepared for you and Khafre. It’s quieter and affords you more privacy, should a strapping Macedonian lass catch your fancy,” Deidamia said, her eyes twinkling.

  Memnon rose. “You are the soul of preparedness,” he said, kissing the crown of her head. He patted Artabazus’s shoulder; the old satrap muttered something in response. Memnon said his goodnights briskly, bid Khafre to stay and entertain the children as long as their mother allowed, and submitted to an unsteady hug from Ianthe. She and her husband both wore tipplers’ masks—their smiling faces flushed and shining, their eyes glazed from too much wine.

  “Gryllus,” Deidamia said to the gardener. “Will you show Memnon to the guesthouse?”

  Before Gryllus could struggle upright, though, Barsine stood and gestured for the old man to keep his seat. “Allow me,” she said. “I am soon to bed, as well, and I could use a breath of air before sleep.”

  Deidamia assented, and Barsine led Memnon from the courtyard and out into the garden. A sliver of moon hung low in the sky; bats whirred above their heads while crickets and frogs raised a clamor. The guesthouse, little more than a slate-roofed cabin, lay about a hundred yards from the main house, in a grassy hollow surrounded by birches and sycamores. A night lamp hung over the door, a beacon for insects.

  Memnon glanced at Barsine as they walked. Near equal in height and slender, she wore a sleeved chiton of deep Egyptian blue, girdled at the waist with a gold-embroidered sash, and fastened by four gilded ivory brooches. Unbound, her long black hair fell over her shoulder; she toyed with the ends of it, her delicate brows drawn together in thought.

  “I am to be Mentor’s bride, it seems,” she said without preamble.

  Memnon sighed. That she knew meant Artabazus had made his decision. “Yes. It seems so.”

  She nodded slowly. “I always knew my marriage would be for politics rather than love, but I never imagined it would involve my own uncle.”

  “It’s not set in stone,” Memnon said, a bitter edge to his voice. “My brother—that damn fool!—still has to cast his honor to the dogs and avoid getting himself killed in the process.”

  Barsine cocked her head to one side. “I do not remember Mentor well, but what I do remember is a man of uncomplicated logic. Could he not believe in what he is doing as fervently as you condemn it?”

  “I don’t care what he believes! He gave his oath, and an oath, once given, cannot be withdrawn simply because a man winds up on the losing side. If this faithlessness only involved the Sidonian king I would support him wholeheartedly, but he’s turned against Pharaoh, as well, and he has done nothing deserving of our betrayal! It contradicts everything Artabazus taught us! You remember Pammenes? The Theban your father hired to soldier for him? He renounced his allegiance to Artabazus out of self-concern and we cursed him for it. Am I now to think my brother glorious for following Pammenes’ lead?”

  It was Barsine’s turn to sigh. “Was it not Father’s renunciation of his oath to the Great King that drove him to hire Pammenes in the first place? Remove the Theban from the equation and tell me how Mentor’s actions are any
different from my father’s, a man you admire? I love my father with all my heart, but I am not blind to the fact that he will alter his allegiances to suit his needs. Men in positions of power have not the luxury of honor. This, I think, Mentor learned very well.”

  Stunned to silence, Memnon turned slowly and stared at her, his eyes narrowing. Barsine’s face flushed; she blinked and looked away. Suddenly, she looked nineteen, again.

  “I apologize, Uncle,” she stammered. “Father encourages us to learn by disputation. I fear I have overstepped my bounds and trespassed into places where I have no business. I—”

  “Zeus Savior! I know men who cannot command such eloquence! I sense, though, that you’ve learned the Socratic art at the foot of two masters—Artabazus and my sister, for I hear them both in your speech and your arguments. Don’t apologize, Barsine. There’s truth in these things you say, and were I not weary and thick-headed with wine I would refute your every point.” The Rhodian smiled. They stood now in the circle of light cast by the night lamp, in front of the guesthouse.

  Barsine exhaled and said, in mock seriousness, “Then perhaps we should continue this on a day when you are well-rested and free of the grape’s influence?”

  “Indeed we will, and when that day comes you’d best wear your philosopher’s mantle, for I intend to wear mine.”

  Barsine laughed, clapping her hands together like a child anticipating an afternoon of play. “Good night, Uncle,” she said, turning to retrace her steps to the main house. “Sleep well.”

  “And you.” Memnon paused on the threshold and watched her vanish into the night, the muted glitter of gold embroidery marking her progress. No longer the quiet, reserved girl from Dascylium, Memnon wondered how Artabazus had kept his estate free of would-be Macedonian suitors. But, even as the thought flashed through his mind, an answer presented itself: because she’s Persian. Likely the sons of their Macedonian hosts thought foreign women beneath them. For an instant, the opening of a door wreathed Barsine’s slender profile in a nimbus of light, and then she was gone. Memnon smiled.